


Espresso Love

by Evilsnowswan



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - In Storybrooke | Cursed, Bakery and Coffee Shop, Baristas, Caught in a Storm, Coffee, F/M, Family Fluff, Grandparent Rumplestiltskin | Mr. Gold, Light Angst, Mutual Pining, New York City, Perfume, Poetry, Romantic Fluff, Rumbelle Christmas in July, Rumbelle Christmas in July 2017, Sharing a Bed, Swanfire - Freeform, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, floof family, papafire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-23
Updated: 2017-07-23
Packaged: 2018-12-03 07:40:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11527662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evilsnowswan/pseuds/Evilsnowswan
Summary: [RCIJ 2017] Rumbelle Christmas in July fic for RowofstarsSummary: Welcome to New York City; Welcome toThe Baked Apple!When enthusiastic tea drinker Mr Gold moved to the city to help raise his grandson, four-year-old Henry Cassidy, he would never have expected a yuppie coffee house on 33rd Street to become his favorite place on earth. He also wouldn't have expected falling in love (with the irresistible barista).... a.k.a. the Coffee Shop!AU no one asked for.Prompt: rain, coffee, wrong numbers- Winner of Best Trope in The Espenson Awards 2018 -





	1. Crema

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rowofstars](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rowofstars/gifts).



> "Coffee makes a sad man cheerful; a languorous man, active; a cold man, warm; a warm man, glowing; a debilitated man, strong. It intoxicates, without inviting the police; it excites a flow of spirits, and awakens mental powers thought to be dead… . When coffee is bad, it is the wickedest thing in town; when good, the most glorious. When it has lost its aromatic flavor and appeals no more to the eye, smell, or taste, it is fierie; but when left in a sick room, with the lid off, it fills the room with a fragrance only jacqueminots can rival. The very smell of coffee in a sick room terrorizes death."   
>  \--- Arthur Gray (1902), coffee “almanac” _Over the Black Coffee_. 

***

Trapped behind the wheel of his ten-year-old Bug, he’d been in traffic for, oh, about three months, and his one little espresso at 6 A.M. had worn off hours ago. With the freeway rest stops offering only their standard range of brews- from weak as warm dishwater to bitterly burnt- he had discarded that idea, and began to practice a sort of caffeine visualization exercise instead- in an attempt to stay sane and keep upright.

All the way across Jersey, through the Lincoln Tunnel, and into the streets of Korea Town, he imagined the distinctive paper cup floating in front of his windshield; the dark, heavenly liquid inside, mellow and warm, yet rich and satisfying, puffs of pearl-colored steam curling into clouds of-

“Son of a gun!”

A cab swerved into his lane, cutting him off to pick up a fare. He slammed the brake and his bumper stopped so close to the cab’s passenger door, he thought the per-mile rates printed there would end up tattooed on his forehead.

He honked. The cab driver cursed. And the Hugo Boss suit climbed into his hired metal coffin on wheels.

When he was sure neither of the two would see him, he flipped them off and twisted his keys in the ignition. The bug spluttered back to life, and with a door slam, they were off again.

Half a block- and a stand still.

“Great. Just great.”

The real world had snatched away his caffeinated fantasy and, only a few moments later, he knew exactly how Edward John Smith must have felt, trying to sail through icebergs on a schedule. The Titanic at least had been moving - well, until it hadn’t, anyway.

This parking lot, pretending to be the route between Korea Town and Kips Bay was driving him to homicide. And a dead body would have ruined his résumé.

Neal Cassidy drummed on the steering wheel and rolled down his window. To top off a sleepless night and crazy morning, a feeling of heavy tiredness hung low in the chilly Tuesday air. The clouds were black, and the suits and skirts were hurrying toward their usual delis and sushi bars, or back inside their tall office buildings and storefront shops, before the heavy October skies got the chance to open up on them.

Thank goodness I’m almost there, he thought with a yawn.

When he finally neared the _Baked Apple_ coffeehouse- and the apartments above it- he saw only one space available, just off East 33rd Street.

With a few hurried prayers sent to the heavens, he slid into it and checked his phone. Only one and a half hours late. Perfect.

Grabbing his bag from the passenger seat, he headed for the industrial shabby chic style front of the red brick coffeehouse, ready to check in with Ashley, who’d be serving the late lunch crush- and definitely more than ready to savor a cup of the Baked Apple’s house blend, before embarking on the overdue afternoon adventure with his son.

As he neared the tall arched front windows, however, he saw the place packed and the staff busy, but Emma’s friend Ashley wasn’t among the people wearing the red and white aprons and matching caps.

Wondering if it actually was Tuesday, Neal pulled open the door and stepped inside.

He was greeted by strong coffee smell, a mix of upbeat pop and light acoustics, and a small body crashing into his legs. 

“Daddy!”

Neal smiled down at his four-year-old, lifting him up in a tight hug before setting him back down onto his little feet.

“Hey, Buddy. Sorry I’m late.”

Henry didn’t seem to mind. Without missing a beat, he happily launched into a breathless retelling of his day, slipping in a sword-fight here and a mean dragon or two there - somewhere in between the trip to the grocery store with his mother on their way to the station, the daily subway ride, and the rest of his morning, spent at the Baked Apple with his grandfather.

Neal laughed along as he let the boy lead him to their table.

His father had chosen the third booth on the left, next to the window, as always. He looked up as they approached and answered Neal’s wave and grin with a nod and a tight smile, followed by a pointed glance at his golden pocket watch.

“You’re late,” he said in greeting, letting it snap shut and slipping it back into the pocket of his vest. “We were starting to get worried.”

His father liked his routines and appreciated being able to control the little things in life. Ever since he could remember, he had demanded at least some predictability in his food, drink, clothing, and daily routines- and obsessed about consistency and safety constantly. For his father, even the slightest variation in the same-old-same-old could set off a tirade- which made his decision to swap familiar small town life for the big city kind of a very big deal.

_“See,” Emma had said, gloating in that infuriatingly endearing way and pointing a sugar-coated finger at him. “I told you. All you had to do was ask. Not that hard, was it?”_

_Watching her bite into her Bearclaw with gusto, he didn’t have the heart to tell her that calling up his father in his little shop at the coast to ask for help had been one of the hardest things he’d ever done in his life. Most people thought surviving as a teenage runaway on the streets was hard. Or becoming a dad at 19. Or getting into med school. But most people didn’t know his dad._

_His father was a tough negotiator and businessman who took the time to review bid proposals in detail, did background checks on everyone, and obtained confirmed financing guarantees before entering negotiations. Only when he was convinced that an acquisition would create sustainable value would he close a deal._

_Much to his surprise, the much-dreaded phone call had gone better than he could have hoped. His dad had let him finish without interrupting once and had listened patiently, before calmly agreeing to everything he proposed. He would leave the shop in the hands of a trusted friend- Neal didn’t even know his father had friends- and move to New York by the end of the month. He would help out with Henry, so that he and Emma could both make up ground in their chosen career paths without feeling like they were doing so at the expense of their family and neglecting their son._

_His father’s only two conditions were that he wouldn’t be living with them, but rent something for himself close-by, and that they would allow him to pay for anything directly related to their, or Henry’s, education._

_Thinking about the money still made the back of Neal’s neck prickle, but his father had been adamant that both conditions would have to be met for there to be a deal, any deal, at all, and after a half-hearted attempt at resistance, Neal had given in._

_Back then, they had been in no position to refuse money or assistance when it came their way, and doing so out of pride or for fear of invisible strings attached would have been downright idiotic._

_They wanted the strings, Neal had reminded himself as he and Emma sat at the folding camping table, eating leftover Chinese by candlelight; Henry peacefully sleeping in his crib in the corner, made DIY from plywood and Euro pallets._

_Strings, family ties- were a good thing. For Henry._

_They had all come a very long way since then._

“Traffic was a nightmare. Sorry for keeping you two waiting.” Neal said, taking in the picture books, empty plates, cups, cookie wrappers, crayons and colorfully painted placemat on the table.

Henry let go of his hand and plopped down on the bench next to his grandfather, picking up a crayon to resume his coloring.

“That’s alright. I just-”

“We read _three_ books today, Daddy!” Piped up Henry, beaming and looking back and forth between the two of them expectantly. “One had big words. Mama says, I don’t need to know them yet.” He frowned, and the resemblance to Emma was striking. Then the clouds parted and the crease between his eyebrows vanished.

“I asked for help!” He announced proudly.

“Very good, Henry.” Neal stepped closer and rubbed his back. “But remember to let others finish first before you tell them something, alright Bud?”

“Yes, Daddy.” Henry squirmed and twisted in his seat, quickly looking at his grandfather to gauge whether he was in trouble or not. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.” His father carefully moved the plastic cup towards Henry. “Finish your juice now; and let's pack up your things, so we’ll make it to the playground before dinner.”

With a delighted squeal, Henry threw his arms up in the air, almost knocking over his OJ- had it not been for his grandfather’s trained reflexes. “Big slide! Big slide! Daddy and Henry going down the big slide!” He chanted.

“Inside voice,” his dad cautioned, placing a hand on Henry’s knee to keep him from kicking the table. “Juice, toys, bathroom. Then the slide.” His voice was firm, but not stern, and the brackets around his mouth deepened with a gentle smile rather than a displeased frown. He was good at this- when he wanted to be.

Henry giggled and put a finger to his lips, trying and failing to shush himself as he laughed and kicked his legs. His excitement was visible as red heat in his cheeks, and his hair stuck to his sweaty forehead.

Neal brushed it aside and yawned, hastily covering his mouth before his father would throw him a dark look. He was big on manners. And on leading by example.

“Listen to Grandpa. I’ll quickly get a coffee at the bar and then we can go.”

“Miss Belle is working today,” Henry informed him between hiccups, the sun-yellow crayon clutched tightly in his small fist and hovering inches above his placemat. He never drew the sun in the upper corners anymore. They got treated to nothing but full, smiley, yellow suns, ever since he and Pop had read the book on planets and space at the library.

“Grandpa likes Miss Belle. I put a dollar in her jar today and she gave me a cookie and a _magic bean_!”

Yup, coffee was magic alright. Though he hoped it would still be years until his son got a taste himself and relied on its particular kind of magic aid to get through his days, Neal couldn’t argue with the statement. 

“A magic bean, huh? Neat.” He ruffled Henry’s hair, then shifted his attention to his father- who looked mortified and sank deeper into his seat.

Neal laughed.

“What is that I hear, Pop? Got a crush on the cute barista?”

He winked, and his father shook his head frantically, pressing his lips into a hard line.

Not long ago light banter like this would have been unthinkable. Growing up, the relationship with his father had hit a rocky patch during his teenage years and some old wounds were still healing, and healing slow. Most of them had only recently scabbed over and, hadn’t it been for Emma, who constantly reminded him of the importance of family and who had pushed him to reach out to his estranged father in the first place, and for little Henry, who deserved having at least one grandparent in his life, their relationship would still be stuck at one stiff phone call on his birthday and a frosty Christmas card each year.

“What’s a crush, Daddy?” Henry had stopped scribbling and was watching them curiously.

Oh boy.

Neal squatted down next to the bench. “It’s- it’s when you like someone,” he began, carefully avoiding looking anywhere but at his son’s attentive face so he wouldn’t burst out laughing. “Like, when you like them a whole lot and want to spend all your time with them.”

“I like Violet.” Henry interjected. “We met her at the park. She has a pony. And her daddy gave us Taffy. She can run real fast. But not as fast as me!”

“Yeah, something like that,” Neal grinned. “You want them to be your friend, and you share all your candy with them, and play all the fun games together. Though, when you’ve got a crush on someone, you also want to hold their hand and kiss them a lot.”

He wriggled his eyebrows, and Henry screwed up his face in disgust.

“Ewww! I don’t want to kiss her or hold her hand! She’s a girl!”    

He paused, thinking, then asked, “You have a crush on Mama, Daddy?”

“Yes, I do,” Neal answered truthfully. “And she’s got a crush on me.”

Henry mulled that over for a moment, and, when satisfied with the conclusion to his own reasoning, turned in his seat to face his grandfather.

“Do you want to kiss Miss Belle, Grandpa?”

If the upholstery could have opened up and swallowed him whole, Neal was sure his father would have gladly accepted his fate. He opened his mouth, helpless, but no sound came out. It wasn’t often that Rumford Gold was lost for words, but he sure was stunned speechless now.

And could it be that the boy’s innocent question had made him blush? Who would have thought.

“Is that why you look at her? Because she’s nice and you want to kiss her?” Henry tried again, apparently under the impression that he needed to clarify to get his answer.

“I, uh-” his father stammered. “That’s not-” He turned to Neal with a glare. “Please, don’t put ideas into the boy’s head, Neal!”

Neal held up his hands.

Henry scrunched up his nose and wiped it on the back of his hand - something that, under any other circumstance, would never have gone unnoticed or been left without comment.

“So you _don’t_ like Miss Belle?” He asked, confused. “But she’s really nice, Grandpa! She gave me my magic bean!” He reached into the pocket of his bib overall and held out a dark coffee bean for his grandfather to see. “Look!”

“I know,” his father breathed, his eyes quickly darting past Neal and towards the bar, then back to the perfect bean sitting on Henry’s palm.

“I think Grandpa is feeling a little shy, Henry.” Neal supplied, feigning helpfulness, but feeling his insides tickle with mirth as his father’s ears turned an even darker shade of pink.

His old man had been making eyes at the pretty barista for weeks- enough so for both him and Emma to take notice when picking up Henry or making a quick visit during their lunch breaks. Far be it from them to object to Henry playing matchmaker- if that was what it took to draw his father out of his shell and ask the girl out.

“Oh.” Henry’s eyes were wide. “You can give me candy, and I can give it to Miss Belle?” He suggested, cocking his head. “I tell her it’s from you, Grandpa.”

“That’s… okay, Henry. Thank you. Let’s just drop it for now, alright?” He began putting Henry’s crayons back into their box, fiddling with the lid. “Just help me with these, please? We got a slide and a swing set to get to.”

That got Henry’s attention to shift gear, and he eagerly handed crayon after crayon over to be put away.

To him, the best part of Twelve East 33rd had always been the location –  he could simply walk across the street to class, the Johns Hopkins University MSE library, Brody Learning Commons, and other on-campus locations.

The Baked Apple was also conveniently located within walking distance of the MTA bus route, the Collegetown shuttle route, less than two miles from Baltimore Penn Station, and minutes away from I-83. And it sat smack dab in the middle of Emma’s usual route, which meant that he got to admire his girl in her uniform, if they managed to coordinate their lunch breaks.

Henry loved the place, because, aside from coffee and tea, they also served the best hot chocolate in town, adding copious amounts of sweet whipped cream, cinnamon, and chocolate or rainbow sprinkles that would have the kid wired on a sugar high for hours. They had a great selection of books for all ages and a bunch of games on hand to keep their young customers happy and entertained.

And, if Henry and Pop ever got bored, they could head down to the Inner Harbor and enjoy exhibits at the Maryland Science Center, the American Visionary Art Museum, or the National Aquarium; or simply go hang out around the harbor and feed the seagulls for a bit.

Or, if Henry wasn’t in the mood, they could choose the park instead.

To his father, however, the little coffee shop seemed to have become more than just a strategically chosen meeting point to maximize family time.

Neal shook his head. “I’ll be right back.”

Laughing to himself, he headed towards the bar and got in line, studying the shiny appliances, polished mugs, and overpriced snacks for sale while waiting to order.

Aware that his last proper meal, if you could call it that, had been last night's microwave dinner, wolfed down in the nurses’ lounge between rounds, Neal took two chocolate chip cookies from the basket. He’d just have to slip them into his bag without Henry or his dad noticing.

He tapped his foot to the jazzy number drizzling from the speakers, and looked around at the bulletin board overflowing with postcards sent from all corners of the world and old-fashioned ads, spotting a familiar art style peeking out at him from between the Colosseum, the Eiffel Tower, and what he thought might have been Tulips from the Netherlands. A scaly dragon breathing fire. Naturally. Neal smiled.

“Hi there. Thank you for choosing Baked Apple, can I get any food started for you today?”

A kind, heart-shaped face, a warm smile, blue eyes, and a mane of thick brown hair, worn in a side braid. He quickly glanced at the name embroidered on the barista’s white apron, just to make sure.

“Hi, Belle. Thanks. Just coffee, please. House Blend. Red Eye.”

She smiled knowingly. Due to its prime location, the place got a lot of commuter and student traffic. Even the odd professor or resident every now and then.

“Great, our House Blend comes in these sizes: tall, medium, regular.” She indicated the sample cups. “Which would you like?”

“Err, medium, please.” He rummaged in his bag for his trusted travel mug, unscrewing the lid and handing it to her.

“Great size choice. Would you like that hot or iced?”

“Hot, please. No milk or whipped cream. No extras or toppings.”

She nodded along thankfully, ready to set to work, when his stomach gave an almighty grumble that had his own ears grow hot, and her breaking character to hide a chuckle behind a polite hand.

“On second thought, how about a bacon sandwich?” He smiled, and she cleared her throat, straightening her face like pressing her apron.

She fidgeted with the sleeve of her red collar dress. “We have a bacon Gouda on ciabatta bread and we have a double smoked bacon with cheddar on a croissant.”

“Both, please.” That made her laugh in earnest. “And no need heating ‘em up. I’ll have them as they are.”

“Okay. We can do that.” She handed his cup to one of the other girls, and got his food ready, pausing to ask, “Would you like me to bag your order up for you?”

“That would be great, thanks.” He smiled at her as she handed him a brown paper bag. “And I’ll take these too.”

He held out the cookies for her to scan, but she’d already punched in the number and added them to his total.

“Anything else I can get you?” She asked, fingers hovering over the keys of the register.

Neal shook his head. “That would be all. Thanks.”

He watched her swipe his card, and moved on to the pick-up point, where his mug was already waiting for him. He took a sip. Belle and the other girls definitely knew what they were doing.

He walked back to the sitting area, making sure to pass the tip jars that had little chalk signs with the names of the baristas working the current shift attached to them, and left a big extra tip for Belle, whose jar was easily the most frequented.

He caught her eye and indicated his cup, giving her the thumbs up. She beamed at him and gave a little bow.

Not bad, he thought. His old man definitely had good taste.  

***

“That stuff gives you ulcers.” His dad leaned back and folded his arms, looking down his nose at Neal’s stainless steel mug.

Despite spending most of his free time at a hip coffee place, he had no love for the beverage. His drink of choice was tea, and tea only. A quality Earl Grey blend, with a splash of regular milk, and two lumps of sugar.

He was meticulous about preparing his ‘cuppa’ a certain way, like he was about all things - heating the cup first, then boiling the freshly drawn water, and brewing every batch for exactly five and a half minutes ‘to extract all the flavor components.’ According to his father, using a good quality loose leaf made all the difference if you wanted a perfect cuppa. That’s why he always bought clean, main grade teas that had ‘finesse’ in the taste and didn’t leave dust in the bottom of his cup.

“So does eating your feelings, Pop,” Neal quipped, taking a big gulp of coffee that burned the back of his throat.

Then he set his cup down on the bench between them and clapped his hands to reward Henry’s latest cartwheel with the proper enthusiastic response it deserved.

“I’m Ninja Ranger!” hollered Henry. He was chasing after a blond boy and his sister, who were both slightly older, but not by much.

“There’s no _Ninja_ Ranger, doofus!” The other boy yelled over his shoulder as he climbed the ladder to the castle and slide. “I’m Red Ranger!”

“Yes there is!” The girl said, practically shoving her brother up the steps. “You can’t be Red Ranger if you don’t know that, Nicholas! I’m Pink _Ninja_ Ranger!” She announced. 

Neal exchanged a bemused look with the siblings’ dad, who had set up camp on the next bench and was watching over their tiny lunch bags and raincoats like a hen hatching her eggs. The man was build like a brick wall dressed in a blue overall, but he had a kind face.

His son and daughter tumbled down the slide in an angry jumble of limbs, making a racket, and Neal saw the guy’s mouth twitch.

“Ava! Nick! Play nice you two! Rangers are a _team_! Go team!”

Usually, the playground buzzed with a flock of kids- shepherded by their mothers, nannies, or young Au Pairs- but today, Henry, the little feisty boy named Nicholas, and his sister Ava were the only children carrying and defending the jungle gym against make-believe invaders and invisible monsters.

“Wait for me!” Henry went down the slide and joined the human heap in the sand.

“Careful, Henry!” Pop cautioned, casting a sideward glance at Neal.

“You _know_ it’s nothing but glorified bean-juice,” he grumbled, choosing to ignore what had been implied earlier. “You get all sweaty and nauseous, and it’ll give you bad breath and the jitters, and will probably end up killing you- in a fatal heart attack, somewhere down the road.” 

Neal snorted. “Right, Pop.”

He grinned.

“Hmm. Heart palpitations, shortness of breath, sweaty palms, flushed face, loss of appetite, and butterfly infestation in the small intestine,” he said slowly, as if in thought, adopting his formal doctor-to-be voice. “I’m afraid, you’re not allergic to the coffee, Pop. It’s definitely a crush. And, unfortunately, it seems to be a severe, chronic case with acute flare ups.”

“You’re being ridiculous, Son.” His father crossed his legs and kept his eyes on Henry. “Besides, what would a young, pretty thing like her want with an old, battered buffoon like myself?”

“What’s the word again?” Neal brought a finger to his lips, tapping them rhythmically. “ _Snog_ you, perhaps?”

His father rounded on him, one near-heart failure away from gawping open-mouthed- in shock or horror.

“Get away with you! And get me arse thrown behind bars for trying, ay?!”

Warm and getting warmer, Neal thought, suppressing a laugh. “She’s not that young, Pop,” he said, putting a reassuring hand on his father’s arm. “And you’re not that old. Just ask her out. Take her out for a… fancy tea, or whatever.”

His dad looked doubtful.

“What’s the worst thing that could happen? Come on.”

As soon as he’d said it, he knew it had been the wrong thing to say, for deep lines were etching their way into his dad’s face, forming creases on his forehead, and laugh lines around his mouth which had nothing to do with joy or happiness.

“Let’s make a deal,” he improvised. “You ask dear Miss Belle out before turning the big 5-0 and I’ll quit coffee… for, let’s say, three months.”

His father’s eyes narrowed. Neal knew how much he disliked his caffeine-drinking-habit, and how much he couldn’t resist a good deal.

“Six,” he said.

“Four. Five, if you take her out to the Plaza next month.”


	2. Body

She loved perfume. In her mind, it was a romantic thought that a simple spritz from a beautiful glass flacon was enough to give you a distinctive scent that added to the ambiance of who you were, and one that people remembered you by.

Scent was the most powerful memory trigger, Belle knew. Just one small trace of a scent could take your mind right back to a specific place, event, person, or period of time; evoke childhood memories of fairy floss and chocolate, or of your first heartbreak.

When she moved on to her next scent, whenever that might be, her current one would always bring her back to where she was in her life right now. No memory was ever truly lost as long as she tied it to a hint of warm vanilla, soft sandalwood, or fruity lemon. Like a knot in a red string, she could trace it, and it would lead her right where she needed to go, down the butter yellow road in her mind.

The issue she had with perfume, though, was that she could never seem to make the scent last all day, and it made her nervous. She got a beautiful whiff when she applied it in the morning, but the scent diminished as the hours went by, and soon enough it seemed to disappear altogether, leaving her feeling lost and abandoned.

She had heard you had to put it on right after you showered. She’d also read that if the skin was not moisturized, the scent would go away faster. Some people claimed you had to wear it in your hair. Others said it lasted longer on clothes. Was it true that a drop behind the ears and a drop in the wrists was the best, like she had watched her dear mother do it so many times? Was there a perfect way to put it on- when, where, how much- so you could have a gorgeous scent lasting through your day, lasting forever? She was on a mission to find out.

The only time Belle wasn’t experimenting with scents was when she experimented with flavors. To many of her customers, the process of making a great cup of coffee, just like the creation of unique perfume compositions, was mystifying. A nebulous thing that required skill, innate talent, and the acute sense of smell and fine taste of a professional perfumier. A sort of magic or alchemy they better dared not try at home.

Belle was no Nose, but could brew a mean cup, if she dared say so herself.

The secret and the devil both were in the detail. If the beans were Robusta rather than Arabica, the roasting time too long or short, the filtering water too hot or cold, the grinds too finely or coarsely milled, the brew allowed to sit too long - any of it could harm the taste of your coffee. Great attention to detail was what got you a perfect result - vigilance and a healthy dash of love for your drink and the people who came in each day to enjoy it.

Along with a good book, coffee was one of her simple yet ardent pleasures. And she truly loved a nice, strong cup any time of her day.

A latte or cappuccino in the morning to wake her up; a demitasse of espresso or a double after lunch - depending on the day's workload - to keep her going; another espresso or an espresso drink mid-afternoon as a break in her long day, 15 minutes of bliss spent sitting in the comfy armchair in the corner to read or just watch the patrons; and finally, one last cup of espresso after dinner as the finishing touch to a good meal, or a macchiato or a mocha with friends in the evening, perhaps after a movie.

Nothing like a job at a coffee shop to turn you off the stuff permanently, people said, and all of them were surprised the opposite was true for Belle.

She loved coffee. She loved the tingle of it on her tongue; She loved the subtle flavors that embraced her taste buds; She loved the warmth as she swallowed each sip.

She loved the aroma as it brewed or was pressed.

With coffee in general, but especially with quality espresso, the floral aromas developed first, while the heavier, more roasted aromas emerged gradually and later on, requiring the light brown crema to keep them all safely locked inside the body and heart. Floating on top like a foamy blanket, it preserved even the most volatile vapors and aromas and made them part of the drinker’s tangible, pleasurable experience, giving the shot its caramelly, somewhat nutty aftertaste. Sweet and intense, a perfect shot also had a noticeable coffee acidity.

She loved how the smell alone, or the sound of the beans being ground, made her feel at home and at ease right away; the intensity of her troubles and sleepless nights soothed by hot steamed milk, sweetened with sugar and topped with chocolate or spice.

But the thing she loved most about coffee had to be sharing it with other people. In her opinion, there was nothing quite like sitting down with a friend, sharing cappuccino or espresso in the comfort of your own home or outside a cute corner café, and listening to their life stories. 

“What would people do without coffee? They wouldn't even be able to figure themselves out!” Ruby always said, and Belle couldn’t agree more.

***

“Belle! Hello? This is mission control. Are you with us?”

Belle turned her head, smiling apologetically. Ruby sat on the counter, dangling her long legs and sipping and slurping her nonfat French vanilla, and not pacing herself in the slightest.

“Huh? Yeah. Sorry.” Belle hung up her apron on the coat rack to dry and put her cap on the rack on the door to the back room. “Last night. Your date. Go on.”

"All I'm saying is, that if he starts calling me ‘baby’, I might wanna eat him!"

Ruby sniffed and tossed her hair back, but Belle noticed the glimmer in her friend’s eyes that told her she secretly longed for that; for someone kind and sweet, and the cutesy little endearments that would mean she alone was special to him. Someone who would put her first.

Belle never could get comfortable around those things...pet names. She preferred to be called by her real name.

“Him eating _you_ might be the preferable scenario here,” she remarked with a grin, draining then rinsing a shuttle, and Ruby almost choked on her drink.

“Girl!”

The inside of Ruby’s apron pocket buzzed, and she quickly removed her phone from it, vibrating with a badly-concealed giddiness herself as she glanced at the text. Her face split into a wide smile.

_Pete._

They had been dating for only two months, but Ruby was already lost in him.

Pete, with his once a week date nights, and designer stubble, and unfunny jokes that made Ruby laugh until she cried.

Ruby never cried. Ruby was tough as nails. But when she was with Pete, she became soft, full of warm affection and vulnerable interest, and longing had never looked so fitting on a person.

Belle wiped down the brewer exterior and brew baskets rigorously, wiping around the spray head, then unscrewed the sight glass cap to take a brush to the thing.  


“Dinner date.” Ruby crossed her legs. "If you want, I could see if his friend is up for a double date next week? I know it’s been a while for you….”

Ignoring Belle’s indignant huff, she went for her straw and more slurps.

“Come on, Bells! It’ll be fun.”

Belle drained an airpot.

“Thanks, but no thanks.”

I hope you don’t choke on that, Belle thought, not even hesitating to pretend to be considering the obvious proposal before answering. Did she give off such a desperate vibe? How was it that easy for Ruby to just trade in companionship like that? And what was it that made her think Belle wouldn’t find someone herself- on her own time, eventually.

Ruby slurped noisily and smacked her lips, then put down her cup.

"Okay, okay. But… I hate seeing you alone. Don't you want to… well, _not_ be alone anymore?"

Belle loved her dearly. She considered her co-worker her best friend ( _her only friend_ ) in town, and she knew Ruby loved her just as much, but it was those kinds of questions- even if they came from a caring heart in the right place- that had her contemplate knocking Ruby in the head with a coffee pot.

Ruby took yet another hearty pull. “So?”

Part of her wanted to laugh. Laugh at her friend’s feeble attempts at pairing her up with whatever half-decent guy came striding through the Apple’s doors on any given day ending in -y, donning his shirt and slacks like a potential white knight ( _minus the armor and the stallion_ ). But laughing would have hurt Ruby’s feelings, she knew; and Ruby only meant well. They all did. She knew that too.

Belle stared at the coffee ring left on the counter - the counter she’d already polished - wondering if maybe, just maybe, she should give in this one time. For Ruby; for herself; for the quickly dwindling stack of AA batteries in her bedside drawer.

"I'm not lonely,” she said quietly, keeping her eyes on her hands and the pitcher and syrup pumps she was cleaning. “I just… haven't felt that connection yet."

“Have you ever?” She heard Ruby inhale sharply at her own bluntness. “Sorry. Foot-in-mouth disease. Not what I meant… at all.”

Belle lifted her eyes to find Ruby looking back at her with a mixture of exasperation and pity as she wondered aloud, "You're always waiting on that… _connection_ , but have you ever felt it before? I mean, how do you know it's even... _real_? That body, mind, spirit...magnet pull, soul mate thing you believe in so fiercely?"

She let the pumps slide into the pitcher, dried off her hands. “Yes, it is. And yes, I have. Just not very often,” she added under her breath as she turned back around to get the last spoons and more sanitizer, and started scrubbing, her skin turning red under the hot water.

Ruby hopped off the counter, landing on her feet, and reached around Belle from behind to dump her mug into the sink. “Last time?”

She truly was relentless.

“Not telling.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s ridiculous, and you’re going to laugh.”

“Try me.” Ruby wrapped her arms around her, hunching over to put her chin on her shoulder, and Belle had to lean back against her not to lose her balance or footing.

She sighed. “No, really, it’s stupid. And there’s nothing to tell. I never even got his name.”

Ruby made a sympathetic noise.

Belle closed her eyes, thinking of the warm sun on her bare arms and legs, the sound of the waves crashing and breaking on the shore, and the pungent smell of tangy salt, and the aroma of seafood- lobster, mussels, crabs, soft-shell clams, and quahogs- sizzling in the heat of a traditional New England clambake.

It might have been years ago, but she could still recall each scent and every flavor with absolute clarity; still feel the echo of her heart being drummed out of her chest in a wild, painful rhythm for wanting- wanting _unspeakable_ things. It had left a mark on her for over fourteen years.

“But until mystery man crashes back into your life, please Belle, live a little. With me. Pleeease?”

Yes, she meant well, but in the way an eager puppy did. Belle just tsked at her and glanced back over her shoulder, taking in Ruby’s goofy, hopeful expression.

“Ugh.” Mulling over the uncomfortable idea of boring interaction with yet another stallion-less stranger, Belle decided to grab one more drink for the ride home, and to stop by the library for a new book instead. She shook her head. “I don’t-”

“Belle, Bells, Bluebell…” Breathing out then in, Ruby leaned down and buried her face against Belle’s neck, prickly warmth hitting the sensitive skin there and making Belle shudder.

“You smell spicy… _and_ sweet.” Her nose touching Belle’s neck, she gave a little wiggle. “Hazelnut?”  


“It’s called ‘Angel’.” Belle untangled herself from Ruby’s embrace. “And the answer’s ‘no’, _Rubes_. I’m immune to your charms, remember?”

Ruby pouted, her bottom lip poking out. “No fun!” She protested, but with less conviction than before. “And what’s _this_ anyway?”

She held up a napkin. _The_ napkin. The one she had fished from Belle’s pocket.

“A _secret_ message from your _secret_ admirer?”

Belle whirled around, trying to snatch it back before Ruby could read it, but- too late- she had already unfolded it and discovered the note, written in clean, confident lines on soft paper.

Whoever the sender was, their handwriting wasn't overtly feminine or masculine. It had no fancy identifying loops or swirls. It was completely even, a very neutral handwriting, suitable for someone who consciously avoided public life, shrank away from the attention and the intricacies. The best word she could think of to describe it was _spare_ , or maybe _stark_.

“What’s ‘esperance’ again?” Ruby frowned in concentration.

“Hope,” Belle said with a small sigh, letting her shoulders droop and her arms hang loosely at her sides.

_Alone._

As if on cue, the word began reverberating in her bones.

 _Oh, wonderful...now she's planted that seed_ , Belle thought bitterly.

“Man, he’s laying it on thick, isn’t he? _No ‘abandoning of esperance’_ … yada-yada… _‘dereliction of love’_ … _‘proffered crumbs on palm’_ … jeez, Belle, you either got yourself a lovesick poet or a creepy, murderous lunatic-stalker.” She laughed. “Hey! So that’s why you don’t want to go out with Vic, Pete, and me! You already got your eyes on paper-poet here.”

Her eyebrows shot so fast and far up her forehead, they nearly vanished into her hairline.

“Belle, Belle,” she wagged a finger at her, smirking, and Belle finally managed to get her napkin-note back. Or -poem.

“I know,” she said. “He might be a crazy serial killer, but…” She bit her bottom lip, and Ruby’s eyes widened. “It’s the sixth poem, or part of a poem, I’ve gotten, Rubes; and he folds them into these lovely little envelopes; and I might have left him my number; and he might have taken it from my jar.”

“Oh my God,” Ruby breathed, gripping her by the arms. “Are you… have you lost your mind?! What if he’s dangerous?” She took a deep breath, considered her for a moment, and exhaled again, a sly grin tugging at the corners of her mouth.

“So,” she said. “Has he called?”

Belle lowered her eyes. “No.”

She shrugged, then looked at Ruby, and forced a smile.

She didn’t want to appear like she’d let something as silly as this -a stupid poem scribbled onto cheap paper napkins- get to her; Like she’d allow some stupid prank to get her hopes up and then crush them, gullible fool that she was.

She had no idea who sent them.

But, somehow, through the few words he’d gifted her so far- and even if he didn’t have a face, a voice, or a name- he seemed so… _nice_. Eloquent, shy, romantic. Lonely. Hopeful. Fascinating.

She’d been excited to find yet another piece of the puzzle with her tip today, but for the last two weeks, and, even though the poem felt incomplete, there had been no new messages waiting for her at the end of her shift. Today had been no exception.

Part of her refused to believe that the string of beautiful words, the stream of partial poems that had been swept into her tip jar once or twice a week, every week, over the last month, had dried up just like that, and for good, and that it had meant absolutely nothing.

“So, your poet is either shy, a coward, or a prick,” Ruby said in a would-be bright voice. “Or he really likes _Pay with a Poem_ Day.”

Belle gave a sad, little laugh. Yeah, maybe. Or she was an idiot, and this was the universe’s way of spelling it out for her. Perhaps she should agree to go out with Pete’s pal Vic. At least Victor was real. Flesh and bone, and real. And, how bad could it be, really?

Shaking the sadness off, and swallowing down the bright, tangy and crisp aftertaste in her mouth, Belle moved to go and stock the fridge with milks. Whole, skim, nonfat; Almond, Coconut, and Soy.

“Call him,” she said. “Tell him, I’d like to meet that friend of his.”

Ruby gaped at her.

“No steakhouses, though. Or monster trucks.”

Ruby punched the air in silent triumph, then quickly got out her phone and punched that, tapping the screen until Belle could hear the faint dialing sound.

“You got it girl!” She mouthed, walking a little away, into the bar area, then back again- to grab the bulging black trash bag- while cradling the phone against her shoulder.    

“Let’s go.”

She was floating out the door before Belle even got her coat above her elbows, or had located her keys, but she didn’t feel offended.

She would go out, she would have fun, and she would not wait for, or think about, anything related to poetry or long-lost beaches anymore.


	3. Heart

She was a dancer. Young, slender, pretty, but not particularly beautiful. Unless you got too close. And not particularly special either. Unless you caught a whiff of that accent that lingered in the air like perfume. Her signature scent, warm and earthy, and impossible to forget.

From the corner of 33rd Street, he watched her float and twist weightlessly across the room behind the tall French doors, poised and balanced like she was made of silk; sweeping, mopping, wiping-the gleaming wood-plank floor, the tables, and the silver espresso and coffee machines.

The hour was late. The place was closed, but the Baked Apple’s lights still shone with a disturbing intensity; harsh beacons that burned through the layers of fog rolling in off the cold, dismal river just a few blocks away, and called out to the lost and weary who wandered the streets of night-time New York in early December like lost ships in need of a lighthouse’s guidance, searching for a safe harbor to land.

With tentative movements, Gold followed the light, descending the curb into the empty street. He never took his eyes off the red brick townhouse -or her- as he went, just kept on walking right toward it, even as lightning flashed across the sky, and the stroke shot clean through his bad leg.

Gold ground his back teeth. 

Neal had told him she closed shop on Thursdays. Therefore, seeing her should not have come as as much of a surprise or shock as it had. And it might not have, had it not been for the lateness of the hour. What was she still doing here? Not that it was any of his business where she was going, or what she was doing, or with whom. He’d intruded on her life enough already, and it was obvious his advances weren’t welcome.

Reaching the other side, Gold moved onto the wide, clean sidewalk and took a breath. From above, the streetlight buzzed and spluttered. How appropriate, he thought, and how typical. Everything in this smelly, dirty, noisy city was just that - smelly and dirty, too bright, and much too loud. The old streetlamp, decorated with festive Christmas decor and behung with fairy lights, had the facade of class, but inside it was broken- the forced flickering of the cheap electric light running low on energy giving it away. It was nothing but an inferior imitation of the real thing. Just like him.

Shallow patchy mist flowed in waves across the wet cobblestone, rocking and sweeping him along like a passenger on a ferryboat bound for the Netherworld, and he slipped, nearly losing his footing on the frozen ground.

He shouldn’t have come here.

Below the tall front window, an antique wrought iron bench sat bolted to the sidewalk. Seeing it, he sank to its hard surface. He’d wait out the cramps and go home; make tea, read a book - though not one of hers- and forget about the whole thing.

As if in response to the ache in his chest, the clouds opened up and icy rain fell; first strings, then curtains; and he sat: a man made from stone on a cold iron bench.  

The downpour continued and breathing became difficult. No longer unconscious, but an intentional thing. A cumbersome task; painful, like attempting to breathe underwater in a pool.

_In then out._  
_Out then in._

Gold closed his eyes, feeling the water drip from his hair and eyelashes, and stream down his face. He hadn’t brought an umbrella, not even a hat, only his best walking stick. Underneath his woolen coat, grown heavy on his shoulders with the added weight from the water, his tailored three-piece suit- single-breasted jacket, waistcoat, and trousers- clung to him like a second skin, clutching at him with invisible, sticky fingers, and he shuddered.

If he didn’t want to end up bed-stricken for weeks on end- like poor Henry had been only recently- or dead, there was only one thing left for him to do. He had only one choice left and felt his spirits lift and soar with the thought of it, despite everything, whilst also leaving him feeling pathetic and unclean, like something dirty and disgusting that had crawled out from the sewers. 

His watch ticked. He counted the seconds pulsing against his thigh.

Deliberate counts. Deliberate breaths. Wave after wave, until finally he rose and limped over to the door, once again making an unwanted approach.

The Baked Apple’s closed door loomed large. Beveled glass; green, yellow, red, and blue- an incomplete rainbow, in an oak wood frame. Under the cracks, music leaked through. The intense aroma of roasting coffee.

_Here Comes the Sun, 1969. Abbey Road._

His knuckles rapped: one knock. Two.

Inside, Miss Belle spun. A ballerina’s turn. The long, brown ponytail swung around the slender neck; blue eyes widened and relaxed with recognition. A tentative smile rose on the heart-shaped face, a sunrise with the promise of a warm welcome.

He had meant to ask her about that; ask her if she was a dancer at Juilliard or SAB, but, to this day, they had never spoken so much as a single word to each other. Not out loud anyway. And even their written communication had only ever been a one-sided monologue.

Gold’s heart pounded in his chest. He grounded his cane between his legs, folding his hands over the handle to keep them from shaking. He watched, he waited.

It took a week for Belle to cross the floor. A day for her to click-clock the dead bolt. Finally, the rainbow cracked, and Gold stiffened, swallowing down the upsurge of bile and nerves.

“Hello?” she said, wary, squinting out into the darkness. “Mr Cassidy? I- I didn’t expect to see you.”

 _Cassidy_. His tongue glued itself to the roof of his mouth, and it took an excruciatingly long moment before he could speak.

“Gold,” he corrected, and she looked at him as if he’d shot her in the chest. She blinked.

Standing there, in the door of the empty coffee shop, she was everything but ordinary.

“Sorry-?”

“Gold,” he repeated. “Mr Cassidy is my son.”

Her bright eyes swept over his face as if searching for something elusive. “Oh. Sorry about that. I just assumed-” She smiled, a hand flying to her heart and back again. “You _are_ Henry’s grandfather, right?”

Glowing pale skin, with long brown hair and deep blue eyes. She was like a little girl’s very best doll, the one you didn’t take from the box. She was wearing her red work dress, her hair pulled up in a matching bow, an all-American girl in a coffee shop.

“Yes.”

He touched a hand to his chin, to the stubble growing there that only now felt a little out of place and had started to itch. He rubbed it, then quickly put his hand in his coat pocket, making a fist.

A gust of wind swept over them and into the shop. The old bakery sign above the door swung on its chain, creaking. He saw her shudder.

“Oh gosh, I’m so sorry,” She looked flustered now, color warming her cheeks. Had he embarrassed her? “Please, come in! … Do you want to come in?” 

Gold nodded, and she cracked the door wider, the music hummed louder, and he strode in, vowing- at least for this one brief moment- not to make a fool of himself and to leave her be. He was only here to escape the rain. Nothing more.

She closed the door behind him, and they stood, looking at each other. He kept perfectly still. She bounced on her toes.

“Can I get you anything? Coffee?”

“I don’t do coffee.”

As the heavy silence fell, drowning out the music, Gold wanted to punch himself in the face. He could at least try and act like a person around her. Water dripping from his clothes and onto the floor, he lifted one shoulder and attempted a wee smile to soften the blow, the verbal punch he had just thrown by accident.

“Right,” she said, laughing nervously. She smoothed her hand over her dress and peeked down at her black safety shoes. “Black tea, whole milk, sugar bowl. Getting rusty-” She tapped the side of her head- “Memory like a goldfish, in need of constant reminding for things to run smooth around here. You guys haven’t been in for a while, have you? Oh-”

He followed her line of vision to the quickly-expanding puddle around his feet. When he moved them, his shoes squeaked, making him cringe. Soon he would have turned her coffee shop into a public pool.

“Would you- um, just one sec!”

“Henry’s been sick. That’s why we-” he called after her as she dashed off across the room and vanished through a door behind the bar, but then he cut himself off. She was only being polite, making conversation to fill the silence- as she had been trained to do, as people in her profession did. She wasn’t interested in hearing about Henry’s pneumonia, or his _real_ reasons for avoiding her workplace like the plague.

“Aww, I hope he’s feeling better?” She said as she reappeared, a stack of neatly folded clothes in her arms and her accent thicker than he’d ever heard it.

“Yes. Much better, thank you.”

She gifted him with a genuine smile then, her cool blue eyes unexpectedly warm and crinkling at the corners. When he returned her smile, she glanced at the ground, clutching the clothes to her chest like a shield, and he quickly looked away too.

“I thought you might… just until the rain… you know.” She spoke to their shuffling feet. “Spares from the staff room,” she explained. “Not new, but clean. Not sure if they’re your size. Looked like they might fit. If you would like to-”

She shrugged.

“Only if you want to, of course. Uhh, restroom’s through here,” With her free hand, she pointed to her right, then made a face and let it drop to her side.

“But you know that already. You come here.”

Still holding onto the red high collar shirt and khaki pants, she hopped from one foot onto the other, then extended them towards him- just a little, like a question- and beamed at him as he carefully took them from her.

“Here you go,” she said, slightly breathless. “I’ll… get started on your tea.”

“Thank you, Miss,” he said, turning his head in the direction of the lavatories.

“Please, call me Belle.”

Her name burned hot on his neck all the way to the door as if he had been branded with it.

Eyes fixed on the word ‘Gentlemen’ engraved in the wood, lips pressed tightly together, and jaw locked, he concentrated hard on his walking, trying to make it seem less stiff and jerky, while also willing himself to become weightless, as elegant and light as a feather, to stop the horrible squelching and squeaking noises that echoed around the shop and bounced off the walls to slap him in the face with each step that he took.

He washed up quickly, splashing water onto his face and arms, his skin humming from the warmth of the water. Lights off, he entered the only cubicle, sat down on the closed lid of the toilet, and slowly began to undress, starting with the shoes. He’d keep his underthings on, just exchange his shirt and trousers for the dryer versions. Thankfully, he’d also found a pair of clean socks, balled up, in the back pocket of the legwear replacement.

“Hideous….”

Breathing hard, his back pressed against the cold silver flush, he stared at his dark outline in the mirror. Even on his shadow, the shirt she’d provided him with hung too loose on its thin frame, giving it a haggard, haunted look. He’d always been slim, but the creature looking back at him was _thin_ , a thinness that came with age, and oddly distorted, like a misshapen hourglass. And, like sand that trickled down as time passed, the number on the scale only dropped, and he slowly became less and less of the man he’d once been.

As he looked at the creature’s sunken face and eyes, despair came creeping in, soon followed by resignation. She deserved better than that, better than him. She deserved a handsome bloke her own age; a future; a full life together, yet to be lived.    

He sat and listened to the pipes hiss and creak for a while.

When he’d summoned enough courage to step back out, he had to shield his eyes against the light. It wasn’t harsh - she must have dimmed it down in his absence, and turned off the music too- but it took his eyes and ears a few moments to readjust. The room was silent, as silent as its old structure and the heavy rain outside would allow.

He heard a machine whirring merrily behind the bar as he stood and leaned on it, waiting for his breathing to level out, painfully aware that, not only was the shirt too big on him, the pair of khaki pants was several inches too short too, and it would reveal his messed up ankle and ugly scar, forcing them on her unsuspecting eyes, despite his very best efforts to cover them up with the leg and cuff of his sock.

She sat curled up on the red velvet wing chair, feet tugged under her body, and her nose in a book. The battered copy of National Geographic’s ‘ _Journeys of a Lifetime_ ’, an oversize volume from the little free library in the foyer, compiled from the favorite trips of National Geographic's travel writers, with each chapter showcasing stunning photography, full-color maps, and expert advice- including how to get there, when to visit, and how to make the most of your journey. The Baked Apple’s free library was so popular that sometimes it had more books than could fit on the shelves, and often it got used textbooks from local students, a welcome alternative and relief from the stress of finding affordable copies. He knew the books and study materials took a huge chunk out of the young people’s budgets, and didn’t mind that his son left his old textbooks on the shelves after he was done with them.

She loved that book. He had toyed with the idea of buying a new copy and gifting it to her, or getting her _National Geographic_ magazines, a set, 12 monthly issues in a richly embossed, elegantly bound leather slipcase. Each two-case set, January–June and July–December, would have looked perfect on her personal bookshelves, which he imagined to be neatly organized, yet overflowing with all kinds of travel guides, contemporary fiction, beautiful editions of the classics, and poetry.

She wasn’t picky, though. Not a fussy reader who turned up their nose at certain genres or authors. He had seen her read anything and everything from the Baked Apple’s foyer library during her short breaks, sitting in just the armchair, engrossed in the words on each page as she turned them with nimble fingers.

She wasn’t turning anything now.

Her eyes glued to the heavy book in her lap, she huddled deeper inside her cardigan, but hadn’t turned a page in over, oh, probably ten to fifteen minutes. Not a single one; not since he’d been standing at the bar, watching her.

She seemed to be studying a large photograph of a lively marketplace, somewhere in a far-off country, scrutinizing the people, the stalls and wares with great interest, her cheeks painted red apple and soft peach on their lovely canvas.

It was a good shot, a moment taken right out of life, the true heart of the place and its people captured perfectly. The footpaths were crowded with stalls selling sacks of nuts and dried fruit, or meat roasting on roasting skewers. Powdered spices lay in rust red and dusty yellow piles, or spilled bright green from sacks as large as feed bags. People, dressed in tunics as colorful as a summer garden- bold yellows, magenta, cyan and emerald green, walked barefoot, their faces dark from the sun. Some were smiling at the camera, others had cast their eyes down in fear, or out of modesty. An old man held a hand against his forehead to shield himself from the sun. Beads of sweat glistened on skin, and Gold could almost taste the salty odor of it mingled with the aroma of spices, the fragrance of the saffron rice, and the melody of the sitar.

He had gotten a library card, and, together with all the dragon stories and fairy tales for Henry, checked out every book on coffee he could find; plus whatever else she happened to be reading that week- if he managed to get his hands on copies as well. A secret book club of sorts. Harmless, innocent. Just in case he ever found himself together in a moment with her that required making friendly conversation. But now was not that moment.

It felt wrong to disturb her peace, so he wiped his damp hands on his khaki thighs and circled the bar, noticing that she had brought out a tray to his regular table, and set it with a little silver teapot, a sugar-dish, a cream-jug, and a gold-rimmed dainty cup and saucer of the usual egg-shell china.

She’d remembered. Out of all the barista’s, she was the most considerate and caring. She remembered people’s names and faces, their usual orders, preferences and little quirks. She easily anticipated their needs and wishes, knew whether they were looking for a kind stranger to pour their hearts out to, or wanted to be left alone to enjoy their drinks and snacks by themselves in a quiet corner. Her tip jar was always full, the sight filling him with a strange sense of pride and joy, and he only hoped she was made employee of the month every month, and that they were paying her right.

Gold smiled. He’d thank her later.

As he slid into his booth and sank down on the soft bench, grabbing the edge of the table for support, his cup and saucer chinked, and she looked up.

Perhaps he should invite her to come and sit at his table, he thought, but what if she mistook his invitation for a request, a request she could not reject, rather than the friendly offer it would have been meant as? He didn’t want to impose or make her feel uncomfortable.

He chewed his tongue, and the moment passed.

When he first moved here, he had bought a cellphone, but he only kept it on himself whenever he was with Henry- in case of emergency. He didn’t have it now. He’d just wanted to go for a walk and clear his head, and had left it lying on the coffee table in the hall.

Gold looked out the window at the rain- which had turned to rain with snow, and thought of asking Belle to use the phone to call his son. It was late and the weather dreich, but he knew either Neal or Emma would have come to get him, if he had asked them to. Only, he didn’t want to ask. They had enough on their plates and minds already- what with building a life together and raising a child- without him adding his own troubles into the mix. He had moved to New York to help, to be there for his family, like family did; and not to be a burden, another thing for them to fuss and worry about. He had insisted on his own living space to give them theirs. They were adults and he didn’t want to be a bother.

No, he’d ride it out here, finish off his tea, and walk home as soon as conditions allowed. She surely was counting on being rid of him again soon, and hoping to cut things short on their impromptu coffee shop session, so she could close the shop and hurry home to make her _honey bunny_ a late homemade dinner.

“Awful weather,” she said in a bright voice, appearing at his table. “Mind if I join you?”

She was holding a cup of her own now, and carrying a newspaper and a rolled-up magazine under her arm, looking at him expectantly for an answer.

Swallowing hard, he nodded.

With a nervous little smile, she patted the table twice, and sat away from him, on the opposite bench, almost losing grip on her cup, but catching it just in time to prevent her coffee from spilling all over the table. Her hands were shaky. She tugged her cardigan tighter around her shoulders and curled her fingers around the steaming drink in front of her.

“Did you know that, throughout December, New York is subject to an average of 87mm/3 inches of rainfall- which is spread out between eleven rainy days and five snowy days? That’s a tiny increase compared to November, by the way. With precipitation occurring on more than 1/3 of days across the month, you’re almost guaranteed to get some rainfall during your week this time of year, so we both should have taken an umbrella with us when we left the house,” she rushed out in a single breath, rambling; only pausing long enough to draw enough air to continue her lecture on metrology, like a flustered schoolgirl giving her first class presentation, rattling off her facts and figures at top speed.

“The probability of rainfall making an appearance in December increases as the month develops, starting off at about 42% on December 1st and rising up to a good 46% by December 31st. The most common types of precipitation you can expect to see during your day in New York in December are: light rain- which occurs on 32% of days with precipitation, light snow- 24%, moderate rain- 21%, and moderate snow- which only makes up 9%. Actually, the overall likelihood of snowfall making an appearance also increases, rising from a rough 10% on December 1st up to 22% by December 31st. For tourists, this makes the final week of December the best time to visit New York City, if they want to experience snowfall here.”

Her front teeth came down on her bottom lip hard, gnawing on it while she blushed deeply over her cheeks and temples. “Sorry. What I meant was- They weren’t expecting this until the weekend,” She nodded towards the window. “But, while you were in the bathroom, the weather guy on the radio said the storm would hit us the heaviest, and probably hit us tonight. The winter weather advisory got changed to a 24-hour blizzard warning for New York City and Long Island. I could try calling you a cab-”

“Don’t worry about it. It’s fine. Thank you. Besides, you’d need more luck than what the Irish got to get one in this weather,” he said, waving her offer away like steam curling up from a hot drink. She had already done more than enough for him tonight, far more than he deserved.

“You from Ireland, Mr Gold?”

He clucked his tongue. “Scottish, not Irish. Mah fowk ur frae th' northeest coest,” he said, grinning as he watched her eyes grow wider and her mouth fall open a little bit more with each word that he uttered. “Quaint fishin' villages, lighthooses an' beaches oan postcards. Stoaner wark an' booze behin' th' curtain.”

“Wow,” she laughed. “I only caught half of that. When did your family come here?”

“With my grandfather. On mah maw’s side at least,” he said, not wanting to get into it. “You?”

“Not a real transplant myself. I’m half-and-half. Dad’s American, Mum’s from Melbourne.” When she said the name, it sounded more like 'MAL-bn' rather than 'MEL-bn', the nucleus vowel cluster replaced by schwa, and the emphasis on the first syllable. He liked it.

“I meant to close up hours ago, but got lost in the book a customer brought in only half an hour before closing,” she said, changing the topic back to the reason they were both sitting here. “ _Anansi Boys_. It’s pretty new, hardback cover. Have you read it? Great story. In the book, a ‘Mr Nancy’ - he was a character in the author’s previous book too - who’s an incarnation of the West African trickster god _Anansi_ \- dies, leaving two sons, Charlie and Spider, who in turn discover each other. The story follows the brothers’ adventures as they explore their common heritage. And it has got magic too, divine powers, and a rather messy romance woven in. It’s like 400 pages, so I read the whole thing in one sitting.” She laughed.

“People use it a lot- your little library, don’t they? It seems to be fairly popular with everyone coming here? I think, apart from keeping you overtime, it’s a truly great thing for a place to have,” he said. “Any place with books is a good place.”

"It's about relationships as much as it is about the books," said Belle, sitting up a little straighter and beaming like a proud parent. "That sense of community that happens trumps all else. It's a great tool for promoting literacy, reading, and public libraries, of course, but, bringing the books to where the people are, also meets that yearning we all have, for a good feeling about our neighbors and living in a society where we are not alone. Little libraries are a wonderful way to give back and share thoughts and ideas that others may not normally be exposed to, don’t you think?"

“Absolutely.”

"It's a unique way to get people out and about reading and interacting about what they've read," she said, her face and voice alive with passion. “Friendships are formed over a good book. Connections made. It’s beautiful.”

“Aye, that it is.”

She sent him a brilliant smile that made his heart splutter in his chest, and he returned it, enchanted by a different kind of beauty than that of the written word.

Lost in discussing her love for books and people, Belle rambled on about her plans for a cute little corner café that she would someday buy and open herself. It would be part café and part open library, a dynamic hub and safe space for everyone in the area. A place to eat, drink, read, and meet others; A place to make them feel at home, expanding their knowledge and broadening their horizons to inspire them to become the best versions of themselves they could be, and encouraging them to go out and make the world a better place- one person, one book, one brave endeavor embarked upon, at a time.

Feeling her warm words wash over him like a long hug, he sat and listened, their drinks growing cold as they sat forgotten.

Then she broke off to take a sip, swallowed quickly. Her eyes fell on the newspaper and magazine she had brought. “Umm… I brought you this,” she said, sliding the newspaper across the table. “In case you’d like something to read. Wasn’t sure what your taste in books was, so I thought to myself, you can’t go wrong with the paper.”

Chances were it was this morning’s and he’d already read it, but he opened it anyway. “Thank you. And you’re reading-?”

She held up her magazine. Some women’s magazine he didn’t know, the kind to be found at airports, train stations, and in waiting rooms all over the world. “This can help you with all your crochet & knitting needs, provide how to ideas, step by step crafts, gardening tips, travel recommendations, diet recipes no one ever makes, and also tell you exactly how your date is going to go- according to your star sign.”

“Handy,” He grinned, skipping over the sports section and looking for International news and analysis, Business and economy, and the letters from readers and the weekly poem. “Learned anything worthwhile?”

“I found this ‘ _What flavor latte are you?_ ’ survey and decided to find out. Apparently, I’m a Vanilla Latte. Don't know that I'd describe myself by this flavor, but I think the description may be somewhat accurate.” She flipped through her magazine until it landed on the page she wanted, and showed it to him. “Want to give it a go? I don’t think they included any tea options, though.” She smiled. “Speaking of which-”

While she got up to replace their half-finished tepid drinks with new ones, he studied her magazine, puzzling over the strange questions and odd answers he was to choose from, until finally settling on those he found least ridiculous.

“And?” She asked, when she returned with his teapot and a large plastic cup with a straw for herself. “What’s the verdict?”

“Cinnamon Latte. I think.” He frowned at the glossy page. “Henry would like that, I suppose. He’s all about the hot chocolate with cinnamon.”

“With whipped cream and rainbow sprinkles,” Belle agreed. “He would.”

He watched her play with her cup, noticing the lack of jewelry on both hands. She’s not married or engaged, he thought, his heart leaping in joy before he remembered that young people these days didn’t necessarily show off their marital status that way. Perhaps she had something modern, like Neal and his Emma did? You’d think a lovely thing like her was born to be with a big football star. She would have looked just right with a burly giant, a handsome boyfriend with a guffaw for a laugh.

“Doubleshot on Ice,” she said, noticing his gaze. “My favorite to cool off in summer. It’s our only hand-shaken espresso drink. Flavors of the rich, full-bodied espresso mellowed with a touch of milk, and then lightly sweetened. All with tiny bubbles of frothy foam. I personalize mine with a splash of Coconut milk, half-and-half or breve; sub the classic syrup with toffee nut syrup, and then add in some raw sugar to give it crunch.”

He wasn’t sure whether that sounded more like a trip to the dentist or cardiologist, so he said nothing and simply nodded.

“How come you don’t like coffee?” She asked. “A coffee house seems a curious choice for someone who dislikes the bean?”

He could have told her that, when he was younger, he enjoyed drinking black coffee. At only nine or ten years old, he had liked the taste and the smell even more than his aunties had. The bitterness but sweetness of the coffee bean. He only realized much later on, how much coffee related to life. To the bitter moments that stayed on the palate and created a lasting and unpleasant aftertaste. And to the sweet ones- far and in between, and never lingering for more than a moment, a blink of an eye, or a brief kiss on the lips.

“Henry likes it here,” he said instead.

It didn’t seem fitting to talk to her about the dangers of a perfect cup of strong black coffee. About how, once you’d tasted it, and then gotten fond of drinking it, you had made yourself dependent, vulnerable. And then, on those rare mornings when you were prevented from getting your fix, you were screwed.

“So you come here out of obligation,” Belle raised an eyebrow at him, her teeth nibbling on the red plastic straw in her drink, a hint of whipped cream on her top lip that made it hard to tear his eyes away. “That’s what you’re saying? Offense taken, Mr Gold!” 

“Which isn’t to say that I do not. I simply prefer a nice, hot cup of tea,” he amended.

He raised his cup to toast her, and she gave a tiny, girlish giggle, hefting her gaze onto her foam-topped drink and looking up at him through her eyelashes.

“Okay, peace,” she said after a moment. “How about a round of good old-fashioned Scrabble to settle the dispute?”

He glanced out the window- at the freezing rain and hail- and decided that he might as well. It was only a friendly word war, and one he had been invited to, nothing more. They might as well keep busy while they waited for a break in the weather that would allow them to get home in one piece.

“Deal.” He said, setting his cup down, and she sprang to life once more, hurrying over to the kids shelf to dig up the ancient Scrabble set. It had wooden letter racks and tiles, which were miraculously complete and in decent condition. All their games were old, and most of the others had pieces missing. He would ask her, if it was okay to donate a spanking new game or two. He and Henry could drop them off sometime. 

She reached up to the shelf and brought down another box that held a Scrabble dictionary, a pad and pens. Gold smirked. Miss Belle meant business.

“What are you grinning at, Mr Gold?” She asked, setting up the game with practiced hands. “Feeling a little too confident, perhaps? I should probably warn you that I’m a force to be reckoned with?”

“I don’t doubt that for a minute, Miss,” he said. “But so am I.”

He was an expert Scrabble player.

Even expert Scrabble players were subject to the very same laws of the universe as the rest of them were. They were just as likely to draw an excess of I's as the next person, but there were two reasons the expert player would always seem to be in favor with the tile gods: Firstly, they had taken the time to master the myriad of crazy Scrabble words that could turn disastrous-looking racks into decent scoring opportunities. They wouldn’t hesitate to turn an impossibly clumsy U-V-W combo into VROUW ( _Dutch; a woman_ ) for 35 points, or clear a rack of consonants in a single blow with CWM ( _Welsh; a steep-walled basin_ ). Secondly - and he believed more importantly - they had mastered all important rack management principles that helped prevent terrible racks from appearing in the first place. A disastrous rack was usually your own fault. So was losing a game.

He lost one and won one, Miss Belle being just as well-versed in the finer subtleties of the game as he was, and even more willing to share that knowledge with those who were new to the game. Perhaps the two of them could teach Henry how to play once he had learned to read and write properly.

"Why do I always get all the I's?" Belle complained, yawning and rubbing at her eyes as she shuffled her tiles. It had gotten late, but, instead of getting better, the weather had taken a turn for the worse, thick snow now covering the street and sidewalk outside the Baked Apple’s windows.

Her hands left her tiles to hug a ceramic mug; warm like the touch of a lover, Gold thought, watching her lips press firmly to the rim and parting slightly, to be met with a tender caffeine kiss.

Only, there seemed to be none coming. With a frown, she peered into her cup. “I can’t think like this,” she said, uncrossing her legs and sliding out of her seat for yet another refill at the bar, which made Gold wonder a), If she got enough sleep at night, and b), whether there was any blood left in her caffeine-filled veins at all.

“Sorry, I’ve been up since 4:30 this morning,” she said, overcome with yet another yawning fit as she filled the coffee maker with freshly drawn water and freshly ground beans, swathing their little world in the characteristically earthy and nutty aromas, warm vapors, and the happy gurgling sounds of the busy machine.

He was just about to suggest that they postpone their current game to a later date, and for her to close her eyes for a moment and get some rest- calling a cab was long out of the question, not in this weather- when there came a loud bang and all the lights went out.

Belle shrieked in surprise.

Then the lights came back on, but only a few of the ceiling spotlights, and at reduced brightness; A neat, directional line that led to the doors and the emergency fire exit, which he presumed to be through the door behind the bar, and out the back entrance.

“Great,” Belle shuddered and rubbed her arms. “We’re on backup power supply. Coffee is out, and so is central heating.” She hesitated, looked at him, at her own hands still clutching the milk carton, and then back at him again, biting her lip. This lip-biting thing seemed to be a habit of hers, indicating thought, or uncertainty, or something else he hadn’t yet been able to identify.

“Err… if we don’t want to get really cold out here really fast, we better move this party to the back. Just until the power’s back on. It’s much smaller back there, less draft, and still got the old ovens-” was what she said, but neither of them moved for a solid minute or two.

He had grown so comfortable around her over the last hours, fully at ease in her presence, and happily making conversation like a regular human being without breaking out in a cold sweat every time he felt her eyes on him, but now he felt his throat close up again, a flaring up of nerves choking him and jump-starting his heart to a gallop.

He could already feel the outside chill seeping through the cracks and crawling into the space that had been a cozy and comfortably warm refuge mere minutes ago; ever since the moment he’d stepped out of the rain and into the light, after the tall doors had opened for him earlier that evening.

He sighed.

“Well, we better then.” He pushed himself up and moved out from behind his trusted table to head into unknown territory on wobbly legs.

Shaking her own stupor, she did the same, leading him through the door behind the bar marked ‘ _private_ ’, down a small corridor, and through the only door on the left, into a cramped backroom.

To their right, a tall shelf had been pushed against the wall and filled with various boxes. He couldn't make out any of the labels, only one box that read ‘LOST & FOUND’ in black Sharpie. Straight ahead stood a simple camping cot, covered with a shabby patchwork quilt and no pillows.

So much of the space had been taken up by the old ovens, projecting from the left wall, that they were left to squeeze in and out. From the cracking black and white checkerboard of tiles that showed the wear of decades worth of boots, shoes, and high heels, Gold could only imagine the original building to be way older than himself; much older than he had thought, and he guessed it to be at least 80 to 100 years old; though the sign above the door outside had been freshly painted only recently, gold lettering generously curled on a blood red background, and didn’t allow for the drawing of any conclusions about a definite number.

He knew the Baked Apple used to be a bakery long before it became a coffee house, but with only three bulky ovens, it couldn’t have been the kind of place that did forty kinds of everything. They must have done just a few things - to perfection- and stuck to them to have the success, and grow and expand in the way they had. Perhaps the most perfect wholegrain loaves and white bloomers, or baked cookies so good they had made big spenders from the grimmest curmudgeons in town.

He wouldn’t have minded a slice right now. Thick, with a dark brown crunchy crust, with a generous slab of butter spread across it, and tasty ham and cheese. Or a platter of cookies.

 _In his mind, the coffee house morphed into something quintessentially British with some rustic charm. The countertops that had replaced the bar had a dated look, and the stiff server uniforms likely hadn't changed once in a single man’s lifetime. The baker milled behind the counter. White bloomers and iced Belgian buns dominated the display, but his favorite were the Eccles cakes; sugared puff pastry with sweet currants packed inside._

_The cakes beckoned him over and the aroma of freshly baked cookies and bread took him by the hand and lead him closer, until he had his nose pressed up against the cool glass. He stood there, his empty pockets so heavy in his ripped trousers. When the baker caught his eye, an expectant eyebrow raised, he spun on his heels and dashed out into the dismal drizzle, running as fast as he could. With every step pounding in his little red ears, he vowed to learn how to bake. If it was the last thing he did, he'd do it; make a lot of bread and a lot of money, and he and his aunties would never have to go to bed hungry ever again._

“They are beautiful- in their own monstrous way, aren’t they?” Belle said softly, touching his arm and making him jump. “The Baked Apple used to be a bakery, did you know that?”

He did, but shook his head anyway, wanting her to keep talking as she cautiously laced her fingers through his to lead him safely across the room and over to the single cot, where they sank down on opposite ends, his skin prickling from where she had touched him.

“They- they used to make these amazing pies and apple turnovers here,” she explained into the empty space buzzing between them. It could easily have fit God’s son and all his twelve disciples. “People claim they were to die for, and the first owner actually died! That’s why the name stuck, I guess. It’s a real shame we don’t sell any apple themed drinks, huh? Talking of opportunities missed.”

Rubbing his fingers, Gold could think of other opportunities that he’d like to get another shot at, and apple flavored drinks weren’t among them. “Possibly.” He coughed. “Marketed right, they’d sell really well. With the place’s history.”

“Too bad we don’t have a suggestions box. My boss- she hates suggestions.” Belle rubbed her thighs. “I’m going to fire up one of these babies,” she said, getting up and walking over to the middle oven. “It’s getting chilly in here; I’m covered in goosebumps.”

He better not imagined what she’d look like in the gentle glow of an open fire, wearing nothing but her own skin, his breath making goosebumps scatter across her neck as he murmured sweet nothings into it.

“Is it safe?” He smiled at her, folding his hands in his lap. “It’s just, before he started school to become a doctor, my son used to be a firefighter. And now the whole family is really concerned about fumes, smoke, and potential fire hazards.”

She threw her head back with a laugh. “Yes, don’t worry. I have no intention of smoking us out.”

He watched her kindle the fire; something she did with the same care, patience, and reverence she applied to hot beverages and pastry, and somewhere just above his belly button, there was that familiar pull again; the one that had him feel inexplicably and irrevocably drawn to her for better or worse, against all rational thought and crippling doubt; The longing that had him read books on addictive substances that he loathed, slip her cringeworthy poetry scribbled onto paper napkins, and blush scarlet like a naughty schoolboy caught red-handed whenever she was in the same room with him.

He’d even checked out a godawful self-help book once, in his urgent desperation to get a handle on his feelings, but all the bloody tapes had done was to fill his head with its stupid catchphrase, which went ‘ _polite, positive, proactive_ ’ and which he had changed to ‘ _pathetic, pervert_ ,’ and ‘ _police_ ’ on more than one occasion. Coincidentally, his weak attempt at a solution to the problem- poetry- also began with the letter P.

“So, your son is going to be a doctor? That’s admirable. I’m sure he’s going to be brilliant at it and will save many lives!”

“And before that he used to save lives from burning buildings,” Gold said, his chest swelling with pride that wasn’t his to feel. “Neal, he’s all about the people. He’s a really great guy.”

“Sounds like it.”

He wanted to smack himself across the face. The way he was talking, advertising his son like cattle brought to the market to be sold for a good price, she would get the impression that that was what he was truly after, and end up asking Neal out, which would be a colossal disaster.

“He’s a great dad, too. Young, but he and his fiancée are doing their best to be wonderful parents to Henry.”

Perhaps he should ask her for an additional foot to stuff in that big mouth of his.

“Henry is a sweetheart. He’s going to be a world-renowned artist one day,” Belle said, closing the steel furnace door on brick, trapping the wood-fired heat inside the oven. “He’s drawn us such pretty pictures!”

“Unlikely. He’s informed me that he’s going to be a dragon slayer or knight when he grows up.” Gold smiled at the memory and the adorable image conjured up in his mind. “He only needs to learn how to ride a pony, and then he’s all set. His words, not mine.”

Belle laughed, cracking open the oven door to let some of the warm air billow from the oven and into the room, making it comfortably toasty. When she returned to her seat and sank down at the head of the cot, her face was red from the warmth, and a few curly strands of flyaway hair had twisted loose from her ponytail, framing it.

“Better.” She stretched her arms above her head, linking her hands together, and yawned again; and Gold felt a sense of warm drowsiness being cast over him as well, the harbingers of magical dust itching in his eyes.

Breathing deeply, he stretched his bad leg in front of him to rub his knee and imagined what it must have been like, being in this room, back in the day when the Baked Apple still had bakers tend its ovens.

To bakers, every detail mattered. Perhaps that was why he harbored a soft spot for the profession. Their craft was an edible art, and into each piece was poured a little more love. They rose early, often before dawn, to toil in the kitchens not yet heated by the wall of ovens. Dough would be set; and the hum of hard work, of sweat, and strong hands mixing ingredients would fill the air, along with the aroma of uncooked batter. Each baker moved not unlike a dancer in a choreographed performance, everyone knowing their role, everyone taking care of their tasks.

“You can almost smell the bread and the pies like this, don’t you think?” Belle’s hand had sneaked a little closer, playing with a patch of the quilt. All he would have had to do was bridge the remainder of the gap with his own, but he didn’t dare.

“Mhm.”

He closed his eyes and smelled the air, and the faint scent of vanilla and strawberries wafted under his nose, teasing him with promises of decadent desserts, sugary pastries, and heavenly cakes, veiled with pale pink nets and decorated with red sugar roses. What captured his attention the most, however, was the petite figure working rigorously away at the bench. Her slender fingers delicately plotted and plucked, kneaded and pound; and combined with a dash of sweet sweat, she produced a masterpiece that flaunted its grandeur, beckoning people closer to taste it. Her face was powdered with flour, her hands sticky with dough, and a cheeky grin tugging at her pink lips. As she sashayed out of the kitchens, the sun high in the sky outside, she left a sweet-smelling mist in her wake.

His head bobbed, and his eyes flew open, surprised to find that, not only did the nutty vanilla scent from his almost-dream still linger in the air, the person it was emanating from had also scooted closer, their hands almost touching now.

He gulped.

“Have you been working here long?” he asked, aware how lame the question sounded; and how much it seemed to ruin the mood he shied away from acknowledging.

She blinked, licked her lips. “Uhm-”

Get a grip, he told himself, his stomach flip-flopping as she leaned closer and the shoulder of her dress slipped down, revealing a bit of plump, pale flesh. When had she taken off her cardigan?

“Ever since I can remember? A long time? Feels like forever….” The pert nose wrinkled; delicate eyebrows drew together, forcing unflattering folds into the smooth forehead.

When she aged, that was what she would look like, thought Gold. Shriveled and wrinkled, and absolutely, breathtakingly beautiful. And his chest ached with the desire to be there with her to see it all happen and tell her as much.

“Honestly, I have no idea,” she said, and looked a little sad. “I always wanted to save up and see the world, but so far that hasn’t happened.”

“It will,” he said reassuringly. “And the world will still be there waiting for you when you are ready.”

She gazed at him, and this time his heart didn’t stop in his chest when she inched yet a little closer. Their thighs almost touched. “Have you seen the world, Mr Gold?”

“Yes, I have. Not all of it, but a lot. And it’s full of nooks and crannies.”

“Tell me about them?”

He thought of the little library; all the travel guides he’d seen her devour with hungry eyes and fingers; of National Geographic’s ‘ _Journeys of a Lifetime_ ’, and began to speak, weaving her a story cloth made from the gondolas on the channels of Venice, croissants and coffee taken in the heart of Paris on a sunny afternoon one Saturday in May, and of young Neal, who’d found the cordons protecting the Tower of Pisa far more entertaining that the campanile, or freestanding bell tower, of the cathedral of the Italian city itself, known worldwide for its unintended tilt.

“Hmmmm,” she said, her head dipping into the crease of his shoulder. “Good.” A word spoken barely above a whisper. “What happened then?”

He told her about Prague, about midsummer, and the Savonlinna Opera Festival at the medieval Olavinlinna, built in 1475. He described in great detail each grain of sand and the deep blue water at the beach of Kalamitsi, Greece; the darling resort town on Sithonia's southern tip, considered one of Northern Greece's best diving destinations. He told her how the rubber of a snorkel mouthpiece tasted in your mouth, and how water pressure felt on your ears.

And, only when her breathing came deep and peaceful, did he tell her about growing up in a small village at the coast with his aunties, in a tiny cabin on a cliff, a little removed from everyone else. He told her about the sweet days and the bitter; about daily life in a small fishing village where young parents were common, but divorce was not. He told her about how he’d uprooted his son at a very young age, travelled in search of a place to call home, and lost the boy in the process. He told her about finding him again; about Emma, and Henry. And he told her about herself; about how, in order to find true love, you didn’t have to taste all the coffees in the world, just wait for that coffee of yours to cool down a little and then drink it slowly; how you never knew, it might taste better than all the others. 

***

He awoke to a soft blanket, and the morning light trickling through the crack under the door. Shedding himself of the remaining glimpses of a dream, his eyes were still closed as he soaked up the warmth of a small body nuzzled against his.

Slowly and reluctantly, Gold opened his eyes. He blinked, closed them, and blinked again.

 _She_ was in his arms, her back pressed against his chest, and sleeping peacefully.

Careful not to disturb her, he sat up, dragged his feet off the cot, and rubbed his knuckles into his eyes. With a soundless sigh, he stretched his arms above his head and yawned; then, with a quick glance at the dying embers in the oven, padded out into the front room, closing the door as quietly as he could, his heart hammering in his chest.

He stumbled over to his table and sunk down on the bench, putting his face in his hands and concentrating on his breathing until his lungs and heart seemed to have regained their basic functionality.

The newspaper was on the table, curled and with coffee stains from her drinks. He frowned down at it, his mouth scrunched and eyebrows arched. It was still early.

Outside, the street looked like an unfinished painting. So much of the canvas was still perfectly white, as if waiting for the artist’s hand to return. The morning light struggled through the murky clouds, but even in its weakness it was enough to blind him. The air in the front room was of course cold, but Gold hadn't expected to taste the same dampness that came before rain. Moving from the heat of the former kitchens to the sitting area was like sipping on iced tea in the height of summer, and he sat and gulped it down greedily until his lips went numb and he longed to be back there with her, where they made apple crumble and turnovers to good to be true, curled up under the warm quilt.

“Idiot,” he muttered, heaving himself back onto his feet. He moved over to the bar, perhaps to brew her coffee, until he realized that he had no clue how to operate the fancy machines, and that anyone of her colleagues could be walking in on them at any given moment, discovering him behind the bar and her sleeping in the back, and getting her in trouble.

There was nothing right with the picture, just thinking about it made his fingers curl. He peered into an open can to his left, wincing when the familiar aroma met his nostrils. Now that was more like it, perfect Arabica bean and cream, he thought. One oven-heated Danish and the disaster would be complete. Perhaps he'd go out the back way, before he could be seen by anyone that had more right to be here; and before she opened her eyes and began asking him questions he didn’t have any of the answers to. Just hearing what was left of last night would set him on edge again, and that would never do.

It was morning now and the snow was still falling, clumps of wet flakes drifting endlessly down, the air moist, and the sidewalk mushy underfoot. Soon, car tracks, footsteps, and paw prints would crisscross each other around the labyrinth of the city, and ruin the pristine canvas. Aside from the brown and grey of the muck, the only other color would be the piss staining around the base of each lamppost, tree, and white-capped fire hydrant.

A car honked and Gold jumped, turning his head.

No sooner had the Mercedes-Benz Sprinter cargo van’s icy tracks been imprinted on the road, they were erased by fresh snow. They inched up the cobbled street, wheels spinning momentarily before they regained traction, their wipers moving frantically over the windscreen. On the sliding door, Gold could make out a company sign; not one he knew, their logo showing a pickaxe crossing a bulging burlap sack.

The van screeched to a halt just outside the Baked Apple, and the short driver jumped out, leaving the motor running. He was a delivery guy dressed in a drab brown uniform and, moments later, pushing and dragging a metal cart filled with heavy packages through the snow toward the entrance.

Gold’s mind reeled. Wasn’t it a little early for a delivery? His mouth going dry, he contemplated ducking under the table to hide, but he’d already been spotted, and judging by the guy’s insistent knocking, he wouldn’t stop or go away until his job was done and end up waking Belle. Caught between hell and high water, Gold decided on hell, and got up to answer the door.

As the delivery guy knocked and knocked, the glass panes clattered back and forth in their frame, twice as loud as it needed to be. The rattling hook added the sense of extra metallic urgency as the knocks kept coming, and Gold wanted to snap at the man to cut it out and strangle him with his bare hands, but then remembered that being extra nice to your local postal carrier, the UPS or FedEx delivery guy, was crucial for good business.

“Coming!” He called back, loudly, but below a proper shout. “Just a moment, please.”

Delivery Guy pulled out his wireless pin machine and shifted his weight from one foot onto the other to keep warm. “Yeah, listen, pal-” he huffed, with a furtive glance through the front window. “I know I'm late for my delivery, but- IT’S HERE, okay?! You’re lucky I even got here. Half the streets are blocked off. And this freaking bl-”

Gold flattened down his rumpled hair, opened the door just a sliver, and quickly pulled in the pin machine. He hesitated. Then he grabbed the delivery guy's pencil and scrawled some loopy fake signature, the back of his neck growing hot.

“There you go. Lousy weather....”

Surprise registered on Delivery Guy’s grouchy face as he squinted at the figure beyond the beveled glass. Slight suspicion was evident, but not alarm. Good.

“You don’t say,” he grumbled, checking everything was in order before sliding his machine back into its holster on his belt. “You new? Man, sorry, pal-” He guffawed. A short bitter bark of a laugh. “Of course she has the new guy hold down the fort in a bloody blizzard. Nasty old hag!”

Gold ran a hand through his hair, mumbling something unintelligible, but vaguely in the affirmative.

“Rough night? Yeah, I feel you, brother.” He crossed his arms, nodding to himself and tapping his foot. “Now, how about you let me in, so I can carry this lot into the back and we can both get on with this nightmare of a morning? Huh, pal?”

“How come you don’t have a key? Isn’t that common practice with the regular guys?” Gold asked conversationally, scratching his head and playing dumb, as he cracked the door wider and stepped aside to let the man hurl his cargo inside. His skin itched, and his pulse was shooting through the roof; his brain frantically trying to spot a tight loophole for him to squeeze himself through, to prevent the world from ending in a colossal mess and a snow melt flood of uncomfortable questions.

“If you had a house full of expensive shit, would you give a delivery guy a key?” Delivery Guy shot back, grunting as he stacked his boxes on the planks; then he made another round, unloading yet more of the same boxes from his van and dragging them over.

“You might,” he answered his own rhetoric question, breathing hard and looking Gold up an down swiftly. “But the ‘ _Lady of the House_ ’ sure won’t. Damn Mills Women,” He muttered.

“Anyway-” He wiped his forehead with a greasy handkerchief and put his hands on his hips. “Right through to storage, as usual?”

“No, no!” Gold made a dismissive, defensive gesture, quickly watering it down with a grin when Delivery Guy furrowed his sweaty brow. “I’ll do it. I’m stuck here anyway; and I would have offered you a coffee on the house for driving in that white hell, but the machines are giving us trouble after the power outage last night, and so the least I can do is stack the shelves myself. Plus, it’s not like we’re expecting many customers in this weather-” The lies came so smoothly, sliding past his lips like hot butter on toast, he was a little proud of himself.

“You’re one of the good ones, Newbie!” Delivery Guy thumped him on the back, knocking the air right out of him. “Have a good one then.” He tapped his hat, turned around without further ado and, leaving the papers and delivery receipt on the bar, was off again.

Gold quickly shut the door behind him and waited until he’d heard the delivery van drive away; then let himself sink to the ground next to whatever cargo he’d just committed fraud and forgery for. His back against the door, he sat until his surroundings stopped spinning like a Ferris wheel - and then he laughed. Not loud enough for the sound to carry to the back, but loud and long enough for the tension to ebb away.

 _Close_ , he thought, _but this old dog still remembers his tricks._

Pushing himself off of the floor, he staggered to his feet, and, leaning on chairs and tables for support, got his cane from his regular booth before heading toward the restrooms. Time to stop the charade and become himself again, before anyone else could question the legitimacy of the new guy donning their corporate colors.

With the exception of his coat, his clothes had dried overnight. Putting it on a hanger in the foyer, he cleared his table, carried pot, and cups and saucers to the bar, then dumped the paper in the trash, tossed the open milk carton, and returned the magazine to the right stack on the small coffee table by her armchair. He re-shelved her travel book and the Scrabble game, and wiped down the counter and table with a dishrag from one of the sinks.

When he was done and the place spick and span, he glanced at the door to the backroom. Should he go and wake her? Confess what he’d done? Confront last night and all uncomfortable questions head on? Gold shook his head. But he couldn’t just leave like this either. It was rude, for one thing, and bad form, for another.

Feeling his coat to gauge whether it was safe to wear or better to be carried, draped over his arm, his hand slid inside the right pocket and came away with a soggy napkin.

Once upon a time, when he’d first laid eyes on the red paper, it had been a beautiful rose, swimming on a pond of coins in a jar; and he’d snatched it up quickly, carried it home in the palm of his hands, and unfolded its petals with trembling fingers.

The heart of the delicate flower had read: ‘ _Interview with a poet?_ ’, written in flowery hand, and smelled like a whole bouquet of paper flowers, and all it had done was make his teeth ache.

She’d followed up her question with a phone number; one that was out of service or had been disconnected recently, and, although a little disappointed, he’d not been surprised in the slightest. It had been three days. She had probably changed her mind, or put down a bogus number right away - just to be shot of him.

And who could have blamed her? A young, pretty thing like her had to keep her guard up. Pretty flowers got trampled on or plucked all the time, to turn up ripped away from the soil, and defiled, withering in the mud.

Gold blinked at the smudged ink on the ruined napkin. All the letters had run, and most of the digits too, leaving only what had been a strange cross between a 0 and a 6, or an 8, to begin with. Either way, her message was lost- and so was his only way of contacting her once he walked out of the tall French doors and stepped into wintry New York City.

He sighed. Back to square one; Back to avoiding the Baked Apple and her.

But was that truly the right answer to questions that hadn’t even been asked yet?

Gold slipped the dead flower back into his coat pocket and got his pen out from the other. Wiping it dry on his trousers, he hobbled back to the bar and took a clean, untouched napkin from one of the holders.

Pen poised, heavy and important in his hand, like a steel blade to defeat the monsters and dragons in his mind, he felt like the greatest coward that ever lived.

He couldn’t just leave. Belle deserved better than that.

Lingering, he clicked his weapon of choice and- stopped dead.

A last message would give her a choice, give her an out - if she wanted one.

As he stood and took stock, reflected on the wonderful hours together they had been granted by some benevolent higher power, it seemed, the knot in his chest slowly began to loosen. It unraveled and, finally, came undone; and he exhaled and wrote:

 _"We have words we shared_  
_and now_  
_I cannot think_  
_of coffee_  
_or of mountains and the deep blue sea_  
_without you popping up between my eyes._

 _Let's speak words_  
_so bold_  
_you have to ask for cream and sugar."_

He wetted his lips, took a breath, and watched his hands as they picked up the corners and made a red envelope. Then he undid it again, adding his phone number. It flowed like a song, from his arm into his fingers; A song he’d taught Henry how to sing over and over again, in case the boy ever got lost and needed to find his way home.  


When he was done, he put the envelope in her jar, put on his coat, and took a large apple from the community fridge, biting into the succulent fruit, sweet and tart, as he walked out into the crisp morning.

The sky was cloudless.

***

> **Espresso Love**  
>  _In the morning will you love me_  
>  _I kissed_  
>  _the rim of dawn,_  
>  _hoping_  
>  _I wasn't just your shot of_  
>  _Espresso._


End file.
